The Little Boy From Gallifrey Part Two
by AbbyTheBlue
Summary: It's been years since Sherlock had seen the little boy who called himself The Doctor. He had forgotten about him completely. That was, of course, until he found a white paper airplane coated in the same writing outside a mental hospital. Something surprising to Sherlock was that the Doctor still believed in Gallifrey, but even more shocking was that he'd started to believe it, too.
1. Chapter 1

((Well, my goodness, I have not gotten so many reviews in such a short amount of time well... ever! I'm thrilled to see your enthusiasm for part two, so, as you requested, here it is! Disappointed? Excited? Leave me a review!))

There are many different kinds of cases.

Some are the kind that are, as Sherlock would put it, utterly and completely boring. The kind where inspector LeStrade would come into the flat and say two words and Sherlock would think for two seconds before coming up with "It was the butler". Those are most definitely the least time consuming, but also the least engaging.

Then, there are the fairly interesting ones. They don't exactly take undercover work and usually he and John are just running around for about a week in desperate situations before they figure it all. To Sherlock, this kind is most likely the most satisfying as they're short, not boring, and by the end, extremely satisfying to solve.

Lastly, there are the big ones. I'm talking undercover observation, say goodbye to John and move out of the flat for a few months, taking up a new house, job, and identity just to solve one goddamned problem. These were very rare, and that was only because very few problems were important enough for Sherlock to feel like he had to go that far.

This, however, was one of those cases.

Sherlock Holmes, or, as of now Peter Abbott, was now an insurance worker in Colchester, England with a personality a little more friendly and a little less, well, sociopathic. He slipped right into his role, investigating a few people who he suspected were planning a mass bombing of many countries around East Asia. It wasn't hard. It was just day in, day out, fake who you are, what you do, pretend to be friends with the suspects and find out as much as you can. So far, Sherlock had every reason to believe they were the ones and that was what they were planning, but also every reason to believe they weren't. He'd need to stay much longer before reaching any conclusions.

His path to his office was only about two miles. Well, 2.195 miles exactly, but who's (other than Sherlock, that is,) counting? He walked much of the time, just to add a little bit to the made up personality of Peter Abbott, which was rather optimistic and crunchy-granola and annoying. He sort of modeled him after Anderson, although it was mostly an unconscious decision.

On his way to fake-work, he passed several houses, a park, one apartment complex, two iced cream shops, three miscellaneous restaurants, one outdoor mall that branched out away from the road, one orthodontist office, and one mental asylum. It was a fairly normal walk in a fairly nice town, until he saw something that was fairly out of place.

He stopped. A paper airplane. Interesting, he thought. Some sort of memory flashed back to him, but he didn't really hold onto it. He stared at the white in the grass. Where did that come from? He looked up at the big white building casting an unpleasant shadow around him. The mental asylum. His heart constricted. All of this was familiar. Sickeningly familiar.

His chest for some reason tight with dread, he kneeled down and picked up the paper airplane. At this point it was neater and written in pencil as opposed to crayon, but he knew the handwriting ever. He could hardly believe it was him.

I've been working on the TARDIS. It can almost break the atmosphere, but I need an extra set of hands. Still interested?  
Come at visiting hours. See you there, clever!

Sherlock looked down, staring at the letter for just a moment. His head filled with observations. He tried to keep him logical, but the voice of a child kept breaking in. _Number two pencil, ticonderoga brand,_ It's the Doctor! _Very dull, probably considered dangerous, from the asylum,_ It's our friend, it's the Doctor! _Paper unlabelled; also from the asylum. Limited or no contact with the outside world._ He really was crazy! _Precision in the folds, folds a lot of paper airplanes - minor OCD, clear writing - misled, but not hallucinogenic,_ It's the Doctor! The Doctor, the Doctor!

He hissed in annoyance, tucking the message into his pocket. He couldn't focus, not now. He tried to remember the Doctor, but it was all a bit fuzzy. Something about him jumping out a window, thinking he had built a functioning spaceship that Sherlock had helped with. A strange boy, rosy cheeked and excitable. One of his few friends. It wasn't surprising to him that he turned out crazy.

The note still in his pocket, he headed off to work. The rest of the way there, he thought up a backup story as to why he would visit the insane asylum and started looking very upset and very nervous as he walked in. His sister (he'd pick a name later) had recently been admitted to an insane asylum after attempting suicide. He would say she was married to a man named Joseph and had two children, Abigail and Caitlin. He probably wouldn't need all that, but it was good to use as a precaution. The first thing he did when he got into work was log onto the database of the asylum, named Colchester Asylum. He hacked in, looked through the people there, and picked a name. Miranda Carol, hypothetically married to Joseph Carol. That would work. He didn't need it for long.

"Hey, Peter, watcha doin?" said a voice, coming up from behind him. He closed out the page, opening up to something he needed for work. He turned around his chair, putting a look of distress on his face. This was his co-worker, Gerald. He was thirty two, middle class, single, born in in Ireland but moved to England at two years old, and well, Sherlock could go on for hours after just one glance. He was ginger and a bit heavy with a sweet face and bright blue eyes, one of the suspects for the bombing that may or may not happen in the future. What Sherlock thought may have been helpful was that he was a closeted homosexual and desperately wanted a relationship with him. He figured he may as well play along, possibly able to get more information that way.

"Oh, nothing, Gerald," he sighed, going a little over the top, but human emotion always was.

"What's wrong?" he asked, frowning.

"Oh, it's my sister," Sherlock sighed, "She um…" he stopped for a moment, pretending it was difficult to continue, "She was admitted to the asylum downtown a few days ago, I was just told recently,"

"Oh no. What happened?" Gerald asked, turning closer to me and putting his hand on my shoulder. Sherlock sighed and put his hand on top of his.

"Oh um…" Sherlock began, tears coming to his eyes, "She um… she attempted suicide,"

"Oh, jesus!" Gerald explained. He spun around and squatted in front of Sherlock's chair, putting his hands on both his shoulders. Sherlock brought a few tears to his eyes but didn't let them fall.

"Yeah, I mean, she's always been a sensitive person, but I never thought… something like this…" he trailed off, swallowing. It was like a role in his play, just saying his lines. Easy.

"Oh, god, Pete, that's awful," Gerald said empathetically. He patted him affectionately on the shoulder. "Tell you what. This is a professional place, not really good to talk about it, but you clearly need someone to listen to you. Let's catch up for a drink this evening, I'm perfectly happy to be a shoulder to cry on."

Wow, did this seriously work on normal people? Sherlock shook his head, sniffing and blinking away the tears in his eyes, "No, not tonight," he said, "I've got to visit her." And then he mentally added, _and getting a drink would just bring me closer to having to eventually have sex with you, which is not exactly an event I'm looking forward to._

"Alright, good idea," Gerald said, though disappointment shone through his voice. He stood back up, awkwardly patted Sherlock on the shoulder, muttered "See ya," and then shuffled off. He wasn't entirely unpleasant to be around, sort of just easy to ignore. Although, as he thought before, if he was getting into a relationship that would most likely involve both romance and sex. Both a chore. He turned back to his computer, finishing out his day of work and making sure he looked very upset as he went through it.

Pretty much as soon as he got out of work, he went to the asylum. He passingly checked for paper airplanes, expecting that the Doctor only needed to send the one and that there weren't anymore. He found he was correct as he headed up to the main doors.

He checked in, still looking very distressed, signing in as Peter Abbott, and then heading into the main room where everyone was being visited, which was sort of like a barren cafeteria.

It was a little hard to recognize him at first. He had changed a lot from when he was a kid in the obvious ways, his face having matured, his body becoming that of an adult's. His hair was less puffy and now thrown over casually to one side, and his face was slightly longer and much more adult. Still though, the excitable smile, prominent chin, rosy cheeks and hopeful olive eyes gave him away. He knew it was him after just a few seconds. Even now he was practically bouncing with excitement, and somehow the loose, white, V-necked asylum clothes suited him very well. Sherlock gathered all the information he could before the Doctor saw him.

 _Possible ADHD, fairly minor and benign, under-eats but isn't underfed, doesn't smoke, still possesses and works with many cigarettes daily, disliked amongst the other members, spends almost no time outside, comfortable in a mental asylum-_

The Doctor spotted him, interrupting his chain of thought. Dread built in Sherlock's chest as he saw that same excitement as he had before. The words bounced around like bullets in his head. _You're really smart, Sherlock! Thank you so much for your help!_

He blinked hard, wiping the thoughts from his mind. No. Now was not the time for guilt, it was the time for analysis. So, without waiting another moment, Sherlock went over and sat across from the Doctor.

"Hi, Sherlock!" The Doctor cried. Sherlock winced, hoping nobody heard that.

"It's Peter," he hissed.

"I distinctly remember it being Sherlock," the Doctor said instantly.

"Well, you're wrong. It's Peter."

"Can't be. I wrote my message to Sherlock and you came," he said with a smirk. Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Fine, but _now_ I'm Peter!"

"Who changes their name?" The Doctor chuckled.

"You did, _John._ " Sherlock sneered. The Doctor's smile briefly faded as he leaned back.

"Oh, please don't tell me you don't believe me anymore," The Doctor said, giving him a look of annoyance, "It's still the Doctor, same old Doctor as before."

Sherlock laughed, leaning back against the chair and setting his hands on the table, "You couldn't have expected me to?" he asked.

"Of course I did!" he told him with a nod, "You did before!"  
"I was a kid," Sherlock responded coldly.

"Yeah, a clever one, and I could use your help again."

"I just said I didn't believe you,"

"That doesn't scare me," The Doctor said, shaking his head with a friendly yet slightly intimidating smile, "No one believes me, but how little would I have to believe in it for that to matter? Why do you think I'm here at all?" he laughed slightly, but his smile briefly faded, "But I see Gallifrey in my dreams every night and I can point to it in the sky. I'm not human, Sherlock. And I think at some point, even if it was a very, very brief period of time, you knew all that too." Sherlock said nothing, frowning slightly. He couldn't deny that. It was only for about five seconds when he was first being told, but he could look at the Doctor and see him as an alien, see Gallifrey in his mind. He glanced down nervously as the Doctor set his hands on top of his, Sherlock hardly even remembering putting them on the table. "So, please," He whispered, a youthful smile flickering at the corner of his mouth, "Help me like you did back then!"

Sherlock thought about it. He couldn't say that he didn't at least think about it for a few seconds when he looked at the same rosy cheeks and hopeful eyes he had known so long ago. He seemed so logical and, well, not crazy, with such a genuine sounding cause. He didn't exactly pity him, he wasn't upset. He just loved seeing him this way, and somehow just standing in his atmosphere was comforting and filled him with hope. He did want to help build his spaceship. He found the thoughts in his mind tempting him to try that same mistake, telling him maybe it would work this time…

But after all that, it was still a mistake. The Doctor was just some madman, and he owed him no favors. There was nothing he could do. He had a case to work.

He slipped his hands out from under the Doctor's, setting them on his lap.

"You know what happened the last time I fed into your delusions," Sherlock sneered.

The Doctor thought for a moment, before sitting up rapidly as he understood, holding out his hands, "Oh no no no no no, that wasn't you Sherlock, you can't possibly blame yourself, can you?"

"It's Peter," he snapped, which he found was a much easier answer than the real one.

"Look, that wasn't you!" he said with a comforting smile, "That was not you feeding into my delusions, Sher, that was me getting the adjustments wrong! But I got it right this time, we're getting close!"

"Last time you jumped out of a four story building as a kid surrounded in nothing but cardboard, resulting in a few broken bones and a concussion, but this is different. This building is at least forty floors, you try and 'fly' out of it and you will undoubtedly die."

"That is, unless I _do_ fly," The Doctor added, unphased.

"Don't you get it? You won't!" Sherlock insisted, getting more and more irritated, "You're delusional, you made up all of this."

"You made your opinion very clear already, Sher."

"It's not an opinion, it's fact, and since when am I 'Sher'?" he said, spitting out the nickname like it was even more preposterous than the idea that the Doctor was an alien, "Nobody calls me that."

"I call you that," The Doctor said with a shrug. Sherlock creased his eyebrows at him.

"Don't. My name is Sh… Peter. It's Peter," he remembered, getting himself back together

"Whatever you say, Sher! Anyway, you wanna see the ship?" he asked excitedly leaning forward.

Sherlock hesitated, avoiding the question. "Say it were to fly. How? How is it built?" he asked. The Doctor straightened his back and grinned, clearly having waited quite a while for someone to ask that question.

"It's all about black holes," he said, leaning in passionately, "Time and space are not what people think, it is not a line, it is more like a giant ball of like… wibbly wobbly… timey wimey stuff, anyway, you get the picture! So, to get from point a to point b doesn't require you to travel the whole line, they're actually all pretty close together, so all you have to do is exit through a miniature black hole briefly brought into existence by the engine and then skip to any point in time and space you want. And the exterior of the TARDIS has an incredible defense mechanism so it doesn't get crushed in the void. All black hole stuff. That's also how it can be bigger on the inside, there's a warp hole in the interior. Although, I haven't quite figured all that out _just_ yet! Soon! Either way, it's all very simple really. Clever, don't you think?"

Sherlock scowled, thinking it through. Nothing could protect something from a black hole and nothing could form one without the power of a dying star. "Outrageous," he told him.

"Outrageously clever?" The Doctor asked hopefully.

"No, just plain outrageous. Even if that were possible, this 'ship' would need the power of a thousand supernovas."

"Ah, well…" the Doctor said, casting his eyes down, "I confess it won't be quite as powerful as the ones on Gallifrey. But it only has to make one trip!"

"Look, even one trip the way you described-" he sighed, giving up on that thought. He'd just have another excuse, "So, what sort of power do the people of Gallifrey use?"

"Well, a TARDIS isn't a machine, per se, not a real one," he said with a shrug, "They're creatures. Creatures with unimaginable power and a free will to take you where they want. The Time Lords built ships around them to harness their power and travel through time and space. It's all Time Lord science."

"Yes, and that too," Sherlock began with an incredulous smile, "What exactly leads you to believe you are a _Time Lord_? You're obviously human, biologically at least."

"Yes, well, Time Lords look fairly similar, your basic humanoid. As for the rest of it the ship I was sent here in turned me human using a genesis arc."

Sherlock didn't even bother questioning that. "So, if you were biologically human all your life, how exactly could you be sure?" he asked.

The Doctor leaned in again, "It's just this feeling, Sher," he said, "You probably know it." He looked out at the other patients of the asylum, talking to family members, crying, laughing, talking about a number of things. He spoke as he stared out at them, "Look at them, Sherlock. They're like goldfish, all of them. They swim around you, go about their business, live perfectly normal lives. Of course you can talk to them. You can talk _with_ them. Some of them are good friends of mine, care about me very much. And I care about them. But even still, how close can you be to someone in a fishbowl?" he paused for a moment. Sherlock looked the Doctor over, something between nervousness and wonder rising in his chest. He'd never heard anyone say it aloud before and capture it so correctly. He looked at the Doctor and then looked out at the people. For the first time, it felt like he wasn't completely alone on the outside of the fishbowl. He turned back to the Doctor as he kept talking.

"That's what it feels like," The Doctor said, "I can see them, I can hear them. I've been surrounded by them at every side, walking through the streets of London. But even still, I'm on the outside. Not quite…" he cast Sherlock a look that gave him chills, "Human." The Doctor turned back to face Sherlock, who still didn't speak. Despite it all, part of him said to believe him. Ridiculous, he knew it was. Yet still… that look in his eyes.

"I bet you feel it too, don't you, Sher?" he asked. He gave a kind smile, placing his hand gently on Sherlock's chest, "You've got the heart of a Time Lord."

"Is that supposed to be a compliment?" Sherlock asked, a bit concerned but not moving.

"The highest I can offer," the Doctor responded softly. Sherlock glanced down at his hand, unmoving. After a moment the Doctor moved his hand from his chest, setting his hands on the table. A mischievous, yet caring smile came to his lips as he looked right into Sherlock's eyes. "Come on! See the ship!" he tempted, his voice barely above a whisper. "I know you blame yourself for what happened last time, but this time, you don't have to do anything you could possibly blame yourself for. Just see the ship. And when I finish, I'll send you an airplane, pick you up, and we'll be off to Gallifrey." He sighed passionately, leaning back, "Oh, you'll love Gallifrey, Sher. You'll fit right in. Everyone thinks. Everyone's just like us."

A cold laugh let out of Sherlock's lips.

"What?" The Doctor asked him, confused.

"Sorry, just, a world of me?" Sherlock asked with an amused smile, "Thank you, but I think I'll skip my trip to Hell." The Doctor smiled a little.

"Don't be so modest," he said.

"I'm really not," Sherlock insisted, shaking his head.

"I'm telling you, it's fantastic, Sher!" The Doctor insisted, "The entire city is made of diamond. You can see right through to the bright orange sky."

Sherlock stood up. He didn't want to hear any more, he wasn't exactly sure why. He had to go at this point, before he started believing the Doctor. "I have to go," he said.

"Will you see the ship?" he asked, before he could leave. Sherlock opened his mouth, intending to say the word 'no', but something else came out.

"Tomorrow," he said. The Doctor grinned.

"That's my Sherlock!" he cried. Sherlock turned to walk out the door, mumbling over his shoulder,

"My name's Peter."


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock knew he really should have just not gone back again at all. It wasn't outrageous. He could tell people that he 'just couldn't handle seeing his sister like that'. That's something people would do, right?

Either way, it didn't matter what he would have done, because that was not what he did. After work that day, he found himself mysteriously lead back to the asylum, unable to turn away and go home. He sighed, cursing at himself as he headed for the door.

"Sherlock!" a voice hissed. He halted, looking around. "Or- uh- Peter, whatever! Over here!" he looked around to the opposite side of the building, to find none other than the Doctor standing there, looking around as though afraid to get caught. Sherlock turned to face him, creasing his eyebrows. After a moment, he followed after him, behind the building.

"Haha, you came!" he said, excitedly slapping his hands on his shoulders, "So good to see you, it's been a while."

"I was here yester-"

"Come on!" The Doctor hurried to the side of the building in a wild sort of run. Sherlock took a moment to remind himself that he was still mentally ill, however much he did or didn't act like it. He followed him over to the wall, wondering what he had planned. He watched as the Doctor bent over, digging his fingers into the grass and tugging up on it. An entire patch came up, grass dirt and all set on a base of plastic, and he set it aside. Sherlock looked down into the pit it left, seeing a rough staircase made of dirt leading down into the darkness.

"Let's go!" The Doctor cried, slipping casually down into the makeshift staircase. Sherlock cautiously followed after, stepping down into the hole that the grass left. The Doctor let him pass by, as he grabbed the patch of grass from beneath and shut them in, leaving them in total darkness. Sherlock stared at the blackness before him, the ground beneath him soft and uneven. He could hardly believe he was stupid enough to walk blindly into some situation. Suddenly, a light burst out of the darkness, and Sherlock squinted his eyes to see that it was the Doctor, holding a small, LED torch. His childish smile truly revealed his insanity in this shade of torchlight.

"The nurses _hate_ it when I go through here," he giggled, "My very own secret entrance to anywhere in the asylum."

"You made this- you?" Sherlock asked, looking around at the dirt the flashlight reflected. "How did you manage that?"

"I'm clever and easily bored. A very helpful combination of attributes. Now, come on!" he turned and pushed past Sherlock, hurrying down the staircase. It was really more sliding than walking, as the landslide of the dirt helped him to reach the floor. Sherlock tried to keep himself from tripping on the clumps of dirt or hitting his head on the ceiling in the dark. At one point his foot caught on something and he felt himself thrown forward, only to his hard, even ground. He groaned, getting back to his feet as the Doctor continued forward. He looked up behind him at the tunnel, noticing the detail and hard work involved. He couldn't help but be impressed.

"Come on!" The Doctor reiterated. Sherlock took a few steps forward, hitting his head on something in the process.

"Ah!" he groaned, putting his hand to his aching head and trying to see what he had hit his head on.

"Careful!" The Doctor warned. He flashed the flashlight up at the ceiling, showing Sherlock what he had hit his head on. Like a running maze, huge walls jutted out of the low ceiling, building a matrix above them. Little words were written on with sharpie, and Sherlock could recognize the Doctor's writing. Names and rooms, Helen's room, main office, cafeteria. He looked around. An underground matrix of the whole building.

The Doctor ducked down and to a place a little past the middle of the room, knowing exactly where he was going. He jumped up into one of the tunnels, reaching out his hand and remaining in midair, evidently holding onto something in that one specific tunnel.

"Coming?" he asked.

Sherlock didn't answer, only following after. He looked up to see what the Doctor was holding onto, to find an old rope ladder going several stories up. This must have been inside the walls. The Doctor heaved up further onto the ladder, climbing up. Sherlock did the same, grabbing the bottom rung and then managing (after a few tries) to get himself up into the thin space above him. The Doctor continued climbing as they passed markers in the walls, more people and places. Finally, he stopped at two words that said My room.

"Here we are," he said. He reached forward and pushed against the wall. It swung open, leaving yellow light to flood into the tunnel and pour over the Doctor's grinning face. He launched himself at the entrance, going inside the small door. Sherlock followed, climbing up the ladder and then carefully shifting into the room. If he fell from here he would most likely die or be gravely injured, which was something he'd rather not do. Once he had got in, he looked around the room.

It was a fairly normal looking room for an asylum. Or at least, it looked like it was. The walls had once been white but were now scribbled over with (what looked like several layers) of sharpie, splattering the walls with drawings of planets and aliens, mathematical figures, and short reminders or descriptions. Little of it he could even decipher.

The bed was pushed away from the wall, tilted at an odd angle, as the 'secret entrance' was evidently hidden by the back of it. There were only three things in the room: the bed, the little side table, and some huge white rectangular object taking up the rest of it, draped in a long white sheet. The Doctor turned around and offered Sherlock a hand. He took it and stood, looking around while the Doctor swung the panel closed again and pushed the door into place. He then reached briefly under the bed, pulling out a few papers of little drawings he'd done, placing them along the wall behind his bed, covering along the crack that the panel made. When he was finished and the crack was totally gone he stepped back and grinned at his work.

"Pretty cool, right?" he asked, "Plenty of the people here hang pictures on their wall, the nurses would never suspect it was covering my secret entrance." Sherlock turned around to see the sloppily drawn pictures taped to the wall. It _was_ fairly clever.

"So," Sherlock said, peering at the walls around him, "This is what you do on your spare time?" he asked.

"Yep," The Doctor responded, popping the 'p'. "All planning, this. Lots to do!"  
"I take it the nurses don't like you doing it going by how many times the marker's been scrubbed off," Sherlock said, casually gesturing around the room.

"And as you may be able to tell going by how many times it's been rewritten, I don't really care what they think," the Doctor responded. Sherlock raised his eyebrows. Fair enough. He nodded to the bulky object beneath the white sheet.

"I take it that's your spaceship?" he asked as though it were something totally normal.

"Yes, but more on that later!" The Doctor said grinning, "Take off your coat! Make yourself at home! Sorry I don't have any chairs, they don't let you have chairs. Last time they gave me one it became the doorframe for the spaceship, so I suppose it was a rather logical decision that I didn't get one again, anyway. Worth it after all," he said. Sherlock somehow found himself obeying, his trench coat and pulling of his scarf, putting them over in the corner on the floor.

The Doctor sat down, strangely enough not on the bed but on the floor just in front of it, crossing his legs and leaning back on his hands. Sherlock followed, kneeling down in front of him.

"So, we've got what? 20 years to catch up on, at the very least?" The Doctor said, leaning forward excitedly, "How've you been, what have I missed?"

Sherlock hesitated for a moment, finding it a little strange that he had remembered him and thought of him so highly for all this time, "You don't want my life story," he said.

"Oh, but I do! Tell me everything!"

"Let me rephrase: I'm not telling you my life story," Sherlock responded more honestly. The Doctor didn't exactly seem like one to keep a secret, and he was still supposed to be Peter Abbott. He couldn't afford to tell him much of anything.

"Oh, well, alright if you insist," The Doctor said.

"How have you been?" Sherlock asked after a moment, a smile going over his lips, "In the building of your… spaceship?"

"Not bad, but either way, why would I tell you? You won't believe me, you just get a kick out of hearing me talk," he said with a playful smile.

"Why would I get a kick out of hearing you talk?" Sherlock asked, admittedly amused.

"Because crazy people are much more interesting to talk to than sane people," The Doctor confessed, then added, "Well, you _think_ I'm crazy."

Sherlock scoffed slightly, "Interesting deduction," he said.

"So you do like talking to me?"

"Won't know that until you do some talking."

"But you just said you wouldn't believe me."

Sherlock shook his head, "Humor me," he told him. The Doctor smirked, and then looked up at the decorated wall, delving into some old memory.

"Well, you know how the first try went, not great. After that, I tried again in the hospital using I.V.'s and cotton balls, that ended badly. Went to some quote-on-quote 'special schools' after that, tried a bit more, most of them I can't remember. Didn't really have any friends, I mean, I had a few who sort of helped. Nice girl named Amy, guy named Rory, this other girl Clara. Never really close friends. Let's see… the first school I went to I almost burned down using an electrical circuit, the next one I flooded because I needed a piece of the plumbing, the one after that one of the other kids got hurt because they cut themselves open with one of my building tools, _absolutely_ not my fault, by the way…" he rubbed the back of his neck, "My first adult asylum, I think I burned that down, or at least part of it. Then, since I was an adult I was charged and had to go to court and I spent a little term in prison, not too long though. Hard to build in there, especially since my roommate was _not_ very nice. And then after that I got out, got moved to another asylum, tried flying again and broke both of my arms and knocked out a tooth, got it filled though, so you can't really tell… and then, um, I was moved here. I like this one so far, got some friends. Me and Neil have had some pretty good talks. He's convinced he's Neil Armstrong, and you know, at _first_ I thought he was just nuts, but it _could_ actually make sense, I've got some theories." He casually pointed at Sherlock, shooting him another of those not-so-sane glances, "So, yes, I'm constantly in solitary confinement for breaking the rules, but that's little price to pay as this is the first place to actually let me use my tools and materials! It's just cause I fixed the plumbing in the sink and proved to them I could use them without hurting myself. Nice guys. Don't like me though, not many do. But yeah. As far as the ship, I'm getting close, Sher! I'll be flying soon, I just know it! That last place was my _last time_ falling out of a window, next time I'll never hit the ground!" he hesitated for a moment, "Do you believe me?" he asked.

"No," Sherlock said obviously.

"Oh, humans," The Doctor said, rolling his eyes, "You're so closed minded! Come on, you won't even give it a chance?"

"To do that I'd have to reevaluate everything I've ever learned," Sherlock told him.

"I know," The Doctor responded with a wild grin. Sherlock frowned, thinking for a moment.

"So, what about you?" he asked him, "You seem fairly certain of your past. Don't you ever doubt yourself?"

"Oh, yes, of course," The Doctor said, raising his eyebrows and shifting his position slightly, "You don't think that every time I took that leap of faith, _literally,_ or felt my bones breaking as I hit the ground _again_ that I didn't question it? Of course I did, anyone smart would."

"But you stand by it?"

"Of course."

Sherlock thought about that for a moment. It made sense, or, it didn't, but he _was_ delusional. There was only one thing he really didn't understand. Well, he understood it scientifically, but he found he wanted to hear what the Doctor's view of things were. It was interesting, the mind of someone insane.

"So, why me then?" he inquired officially, "Why show me all this?"

The Doctor grinned at him again, that sort of smile again that said 'I'm so glad you asked'. He leaned in a little bit, "Now this will really make you think I'm crazy," he confessed with a giggle, "Can I tell you a secret, Sherlock?"

"Go ahead," Sherlock responded curiously.

He leaned in even closer, looking back and forth like he did when he was a little kid. "I don't think you're human," he confessed.

Sherlock creased his eyebrows and scoffed. Now that was truly outrageous. " _I'm_ not human?" he asked, "And if I wasn't what exactly are you proposing I am?"

"Time Lord," The Doctor said with a shrug.

"Alright, so what's your proof?" Sherlock asked. The Doctor looked him over for a moment like he was reading a road sign.

"Nothing solid," he confessed, "But there's just something about you, I can see it in your eyes," he leaned back, a gentle yet indecipherable look on his face, "No human on Earth looks that homesick. Not all the time, anyway."

Sherlock leaned back too, admittedly rather taken aback by this. He snapped his answer back incredulously, beginning to get defensive but unable to help it.

"Homesick? Why would I be-"

"Oh come on, Sher, you don't have to hide it from me," The Doctor said, shaking his head, "I could see it in your eyes, ever since I met you. You wandered through that place, you'd memorized every leaf, every cloud, every blade of grass on the bloody ground, but you didn't _know_ it. They way you hold yourself, straight-backed, uneasy, eyes passing over everything taking it in all at once. Always a stranger in a strange land, always, ever since you were little." He smiled, "Even now. You know how these things work, the way you sit back, kneeling, hands on your knees, like you're afraid to touch anything. Of course you're uncomfortable, Sherlock, you're an orange in a room full of apples. Of course people think you're weird. They think you're human."

A scowl came to Sherlock's face as he self consciously looked at his body movements, changing them slightly, but he found they'd shift back to what they were before. He knew the Doctor was right, he could feel it in his heart, he always had. He had always figured it was just him. Could it be possible that he simply wasn't like the rest?

No. Absolutely not.

"That's outrageous," he snapped, "You're insane, why do I even bother?" he demanded.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa, Sher-" the Doctor started.

" _It's. Peter!"_ Sherlock responded sharply, casting him a furious glance. The Doctor held up his hands, trying to calm him back down.

"Peter," he addressed gently, "You know what, you're right, I'm sorry, I was going to tell you all this later. I'm sorry, I'm going too fast, my fault. Don't worry about it. You may very well be human, it was just a theory. Let's just see the ship, okay?" Sherlock wanted to argue, but for some reason, he found the Doctor's words to be fairly soothing. He pressed his teeth together in the anger that still remained and sharply nodded.

Immediately the Doctor's face was again brimmed with a smile and he leapt to his feet.

"Cool!" he said, and his voice sounded exactly like it did when he was young. Sherlock stood too, quickly calming down from the incident before. The Doctor grabbed the end of the sheet. "I present to you," he began. He pulled the sheet off and threw it aside, "The TARDIS."

Sherlock looked it over.

It _was_ impressive.

Or at least, for having been built in a mental asylum.

It was similar to the first he'd seen, a blue box modeled after the old London Police Boxes, only now it was made of wood and big enough for someone to fit into while standing. It was painted and cut surprisingly well, with functioning doors with windows on the front. On the front were the precisely painted letters "Public Call Police Box" and on the top was taped down an electric lantern. Sherlock looked it over. It wasn't particularly interesting, but it still had a sort of… feel to it. He would describe it as magic, but he wasn't nearly foolish enough to fall for that. It was probably just nostalgia from when he first met the Doctor, that was all. Of course it was.

"What do you think?" The Doctor giggled. Sherlock began to speak, but the Doctor cut him off, "TARDIS, that's Time And Relative Dimension In Space, in case you didn't know."

"Not particularly impressive," Sherlock confessed, considering it was supposed to be a spaceship, "How is it supposed to fly?"

"Not fly, exactly, use black holes to skip into various places in the universe," The Doctor said, "But I already explained all that."

"Right," Sherlock remembered. The Doctor didn't speak for another moment, tucking his hands in his pockets and looking at the spaceship with wonder and hope filling his eyes like sunlight. His eyes glimmered even though there was no window. It was a strange thing.

After a moment, he looked down and finally spoke.

"You will come, won't you?" he asked softly, not looking back at him, "It would truly mean a lot."

Sherlock didn't respond for a moment, not knowing what to think. He probably should have said there was no Gallifrey, if that was what he called it, no spaceship, no aliens, and that the Doctor needed to gain some sense. Of course he wouldn't go. But somehow, he found himself saying,

"I never make promises I can't be sure I'll keep."

"Ah, well, I suppose that's fair. Good policy," The Doctor admitted. He was silent for a moment, but Sherlock didn't speak. He could tell by the shifting of his eyes and weight that he still had something to say, he just was too nervous to say it. Sherlock looked expectantly at the Doctor

"Say, Sher," he finally said.

"What?" Sherlock asked.

"When we get to Gallifrey," he began, fiddling with his fingers, "Have you made any plans for what you'll do?"

"Of course not, why?" Sherlock answered.

"Oh, you know, I was just curious," he said, rubbing the back of his neck, "And I mean, you know, also because I had sort of been wondering if you'd… like to stay with me?" he looked up nervously at Sherlock. His eyes still had that same tone of insanity as before, but it was less wild, more controlled, more sincere. Sherlock kept his face emotionless, but truly couldn't believe that he would ask something like this. He barely knew him.

"I-I mean, just because I'll get there and I won't know anyone, like, _anyone,_ and it may be kind of hard to get settled, and you're really the only one I could ever ask, of course, you haven't _got_ to, just if you want," The Doctor pointlessly stuttered, "I mean, I assume there are ceremonies for it there, different ones, but we could do it the way they do it on Earth if it would make you more comfortable. Or any other way, never was one for tradition, I mean-"

"Ceremonies?" Sherlock asked, creasing his eyebrows, "What kind of- ah." he stopped, smiling softly in understanding. He raised his eyebrows in amusement, smiling at the Doctor. "Is this a proposal?" he asked, rather smugly. The Doctor giggled at the word like a little kid.

"If you're interested," he said, rubbing the back of his neck. Sherlock scoffed. To think _he_ was socially inept.

"My God, you have no idea how marriage works at all, do you?" he asked, "I've seen you twice, once when I was seven and once now."

"So?" The Doctor asked. He shrugged, giving him a sunny grin, "I know I like you and I know I want to spend my time with you. What else is there?"

"Most people tend to want to date the participant for several years and move in together first, and usually make a rather big deal of the proposal," Sherlock explained coolly.

The Doctor reached out and confidently held Sherlock's hand, his eager grin still remaining. Sherlock didn't stop him. "Aren't normal people funny?" he asked. Sherlock just stared for a moment. He shouldn't have gone forward, but he felt himself incapable of moving back. For a passing second, it was a very attractive idea. But of course, it quickly went back to outrageous again.

Suddenly, a knock same at the door and both their heads whipped around. The Doctor's hand left Sherlock's and he clenched his hand into a fist and then opened it again. His hands were suddenly very cold and he found his heart was racing fast. How odd, he thought. He took in a heavy breath, purposefully slowing his heart rate.

The Doctor froze, his eyes going wide.

"John, come out now," a deep male voice from the door came as someone knocked again, "You're missing group therapy."

"Crap," The Doctor hissed, "I drew on the walls again. And you can't be here!"

"Well that's not my problem," Sherlock responded casually.

"Oh, you're no help!" The Doctor responded.

"I'm coming in, John," the voice said with a sigh. Both of them froze as the door opened, revealing a rather buff guard with short brown hair and an exasperated look on his face.

The Doctor hesitated for a moment before leaning back and grinning like he was an old friend, "Todd!" he cried, "Is that a new haircut, because may I say, you look just stunning-"

"Don't bother, John," he said with an angry smirk. He looked around the room. "Writing on the walls. You know what that gets you."

The Doctor rolled his eyes. "24 hours of solitary confinement," he droned, having recognized the punishment, "But not _now!_ I have a friend over!"

"And that's the other thing," The guard, apparently Todd, continued suspiciously, "How did he get in here? It wasn't that matrix of yours was it, you told us you'd shut it down."  
The Doctor froze. "Er-" he finally began, but sherlock cut him off, pretending to be very distraught.

"No, it's not his fault i-it's me, I'm sorry," he said through tears he was resurfacing in his throat. He shifted his weight to one foot and grabbed his arms, hugging himself nervously, "I'm Peter Abbott, I came at first to see my sister but when I found out my old… er, friend was here too I was heartbroken. I didn't sign in, o-or out, I'm sorry, I just needed to see him. It won't happen again."

The Doctor glanced at him in vague surprise, but quickly went along with the illusion.

"Right," he said, "Sorry, it was just really good to see him after so long," he said. It wasn't hard to act, that was all the truth.

Todd squinted between them, before finally sighing. "Well, that's still solitary confinement for writing on the walls," he said finally, "But you're cleaning this all off!"  
"Fine," The Doctor said through a heavy sigh, "See you, Sh- Er, Peter." He headed over to the hallway, dragging his feet and pouting like a child who'd been told to go to his room. Sherlock figured that an escort would probably be there in about two seconds, but he didn't want to wait. He pulled on his coat and left out the door, quickly signing out and heading out the front door. He had planned to go out to a bar today, add to his persona, but there was too much to process. This visit had been like a windstorm, and all he wanted was to get home and think.


End file.
